


misericorde

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Multi, Non-Consensual, Victim-blaming, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:31:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian Assange's captors will get everything he knows out of him. But first, they have a more personal vengeance to extract.</p>
            </blockquote>





	misericorde

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Juanita_Rainbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juanita_Rainbow/gifts).



> Warning: includes both noncon and references to past noncon. (See endnotes for specific details.)

~

He doesn’t remember being taken.

The room spins dizzily when he tries to raise his head; there is a bare electric light-bulb overhead, shining bright daggers into his eyes. Somewhere nearby, someone’s playing Edith Piaf.

He wets dry lips. “What?”

The scrape of a chair on cement, the click of heels, and then a face looms over his. 

“Good morning, Julian,” the owner of the face says, her voice as flat as her uniform is crisp.

He tries to fling an arm up – to cover his eyes or to protect himself, he’s not entirely sure, the movement instinctual and primal - but his arm is shackled.

The officer has a mobile phone. “He’s awake, ma’am,” she says. 

They have him.

~

Julian’s a proud man. He lasts twenty minutes, his eyes screwed shut against the harsh glare of the light, the only sounds the Piaf record and his own ragged breath, before he breaks.

“What’s going to happen to me?”

The officer turns down the music and comes unhurriedly to stand over him again. “I wouldn’t like to say.”

He sets his teeth, pulling ineffectively at his arm restraints. “You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”

She shrugs one shoulder, the motion casually elegant. 

Julian wonders why she wore her dress uniform to supervise an unconscious prisoner, but the question is likely to be irrelevant. He needs information to analyze, information to keep his brain from whirling down treacherous paths. 

“I won’t tell you,” she says, and smiles. 

The smile softens her face, and Julian realizes she’s pretty. 

In another world, he’d buy her a drink and slide close, tell her about his crusade, buy her another drink, stroke her hair and then more if she didn’t slap his face, buy her another drink, take her back to his room...

In this world, there is only cement and shackles and the uncanny curve of her smile.

~

An hour passes. Perhaps two. Julian loses track of time; after a while the officer tires of Piaf, and the only sound is the flick of book pages. 

He takes stock of his own condition. His head pounds and he’s stiff, his arms and legs aching as if they haven’t been moved in a very long time, but he doesn’t think he’s injured. _They’ve left you unmarked_ , something hisses behind his eyes, _to have the greater fun marking you later._

~

When the door finally opens, it feels like a gunshot. Julian’s body goes rigid, half in shock and half in dread.

“Has he been any trouble?”

“No, ma’am,” the officer says, but Julian barely hears her, because he knows that voice.

He hears the click of the door swinging shut, the soft thump of a briefcase or bag being deposited on the floor, the scritch of pen on paper. The inability to move seems to have sharpened his other senses. 

He would give anything to be free to run.

When the new arrival finally finishes what must be paperwork and walks toward him, her face appearing in his constrained field of vision is almost a relief. At least he knows for sure now. At least the limbo is over.

“Mr Assange,” Hillary says.

~

“How did you get me?” Julian asks, because he must know. Did they storm the Ecuadorian embassy – did he cause an international incident (another international incident)? Did they bribe one of the Ecuadorians to slip something into his food and smuggle his unconscious body out in a rubbish bag? Did a CIA black-ops agent spirit him out through the window?

Hillary is studying him, as if he’s a wounded mouse and she a cat well-fed enough to be playful. “I think,” she says, smiling slightly, “that we’ll let you keep wondering about that.”

The finger she traces slowly up his cheek feels like it should leave blisters behind. He doesn’t want her to touch him. He doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t want to be denied all information, and he doesn’t want her to touch him. 

Hillary’s smile looks even sharper now. “Let’s just say that nobody will ever know where you are, or that we have you. And that leaves us such scope to work with, don’t you think?”

He’s heard the stories. He’s uncovered the stories. And now he’s going to _become_ one of the stories. 

“Later,” she says, the edge of her fingernail digging into his forehead just enough to hurt, “we’ll turn you over to the professionals. But for now…” 

He can’t quite control the shudder as his eyes close, shutting out the light and knowledge both.

He’s a dead man in the hands of his enemies.

“Cut his clothes off,” Hillary says.

~

Julian’s keeping his eyes firmly shut. He doesn’t want to see. 

They’re conferring about what to do with him first. His nakedness seems like it should have a different word - _very_ naked, perhaps, or _particularly_ naked, laid out shackled on a table under an unforgiving electric light, helpless and alone.

Nobody’s touched him yet, beyond the cold, almost clinical way that the officer cut off his clothes. The knife edge against his skin had made him shiver, and he’d been aware of Hillary’s eyes on him, steady and amused, as his last defence fell away.

Not that any defence would be enough here.

~

Julian hears the snick of scissors, and then the officer is duct-taping his cock to his belly. He gasps with the shock of it, and inhales more of Hillary’s cunt, struggling to breathe.

“Lick,” Hillary reminds him, her voice barely agitated.

He doesn’t want her clit under his tongue, he doesn’t want her juices on his face, he doesn’t want her smell in his nostrils. He doesn’t even do this for women he takes to his bed, pretty young laughing things who admire him for what he’s done for openness and transparency and justice; he’s good enough with his cock that they’ve never needed it, shuddering underneath him in their ecstasy, and it’s boring. It makes his jaw ache. Sex is about pounding and mindlessness and taking, power and strength and raw pleasure, not about tired tongues and frustrating efforts and mess all over his face.

Above him, Hillary sighs. “Remind him of the bargain, would you please?”

The officer’s cold fingers part him dispassionately, touch him where he doesn’t want to be touched. When she pushes a gloved finger in, he can’t help the whine that escapes him, can’t help flinching away.

But there is nowhere to flinch to, and Hillary’s cunt is everywhere, overwhelming him.

“Lick,” Hillary says, “or you’ll have much more than a finger.”

~

Of course they go back on the ‘bargain’. Julian knew they would as soon as she offered it; but hope is a tricky thing, and much as his brain tells him to lie limp and refuse to give them any satisfaction, something gibbering away in the back of it made him try his best to avert the worst of it. 

His jaw had been on fire by the time she finally shuddered above him. He’d put himself through pain to fulfil his end of the bargain, and all for nothing.

“Put your hips into it,” Hillary tells the officer, from her seat in a comfortable chair. He supposes, in the part of his mind that isn’t flinching, that it gives her a good vantage point.

“Yes, ma’am,” the officer says, her voice steady.

He saw it. They made him lick it, forced it into his mouth, fucked his throat with it until tears came to his eyes. His face must be a wreck now, Hillary’s come mixed with his own tears, but they haven’t wiped it away; it itches, and he has much bigger things to worry about, but he can’t help cringing at the thought of what he must look like. He’s always been so thoughtful about his own appearance.

It nudges at him now. She’s letting him feel it, letting him feel the size of it, letting his brain gibber at the thought of it pushing into him relentlessly, stealing something he doesn’t want to give, hurting him in ways that will leave more than physical scars. 

He screws his eyes more tightly shut.

~

 _This isn’t fair_ , Julian thinks, somewhere between the throbbing pain of the silicone monstrosity being shoved into his innards and the sharp pain of humiliation. 

Those girls who said he raped them, they’d wanted it. They’d gone to bed with him happily enough. They’d never said no. There had been the absence of yes, perhaps; but if you have sex with someone, you can hardly protest if they go for seconds the next morning, even if you’re still asleep. You’ve already said yes. Barn door, horses, etc. 

And sex without a condom, pah. That girl was a slut. Obviously. She’d let him kiss her on the first night they’d been introduced. She’d gone to her knees with only the barest pressure on her head, and spread her legs for him easily enough. She’d fallen asleep next to him, for fuck’s sake, with her friends downstairs. So he’d woken up horny. So he’d pushed into her slick cunt without a condom while she dozed in the morning light. So what? Oh, she’d said something the previous night about wearing a condom, but a slut like that, she’d probably taken it bareback dozens of times. What was one more? And if it was really rape, she’d have screamed out when she woke up, her friends just downstairs, but she’d only pushed at him a little, and okay, there had been a no or two, but he’d been about to come, you can’t say no at that point, everybody knows that.

None of those girls would have complained if his enemies hadn’t got to them. 

This is completely different. He’s said no, he’s screamed it out, he’s sobbed and writhed and tried to get away, but the officer just keeps inexorably pistoning her hips, strong and ruthless and overpowering, and he can barely breathe.

It’s worse that she’s pretty, somehow. Hillary was disgusting, she was old and fat, but he would have taken this woman to his bed, if he’d met her before, and now she’s destroying him without a shadow of regret in her beautiful face.

~

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Julian says, low and desperate, staring up into Hillary’s face.

He doesn’t know how much he can tell, dependent on only his memory, without his laptop and his data to hand, but if they have him they probably have his equipment too. And even without them he could tell enough to bring his entire enterprise crashing down.

He’s sorry about it, somewhere in the back of his brain, but they’ve brought a monster of a man in, and even though his body still screams with what the officer did to him, at least she was still a woman. At least the cock she fucked him with was inert, silicone, lifeless; the thought of being fucked by a man, as carelessly and as devastatingly as he used to fuck his own women, turns Julian’s stomach, and even though he knows it’s probably useless, he’ll beg if that’s what it takes to escape.

“Please,” he tells Hillary, and he can hear his voice break. “Don’t let him fuck me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Hillary looks down at him, her face remote. She touches his cheek, and he turns his face, trying to suck her fingers into his mouth, willing to do anything she wants if she will spare him this.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, you will.”

He breathes in a lungful of air, and then the giant is shoving his legs apart and stepping between them.

“Later,” Hillary says, and her smile is serene.

~

“What are you going to do with me?” Julian asks. His voice is hoarse from screaming, his body a million pinpricks of pain, his psyche raw. He’s not sure he can handle the answer, not when he wants to curl into a ball and hide in a dark place forever. But he has to know.

Hillary wrinkles her nose, considering. “Let’s make that a surprise.”

They could have at least called a doctor afterwards. He’d kissed his girls. He’s not a monster, to be torn apart and left flayed on the altar. They’ve left him lying in filth, his face a mess of tears.

“But perhaps,” Hillary says, looking back over her shoulder from where the officer holds the door for her, “a teaser.” She smiles, and Julian’s blood runs cold. “Let’s say that’s tomorrow’s agenda includes a knife, and some body parts you won’t ever be using again.”

He’d cross his legs, but he can’t; the shackles on his ankles hold his legs inexorably apart. His cock is still duct-taped to his belly. He’s not sure whether it’s actually gone numb, or whether his body’s just shutting down pain processes in a belated attempt to spare him at least some of the agony.

Hillary’s smile widens, watching him. “Yes,” she says.

He doesn’t even try to beg this time. What would be the use? She will do whatever she wants to him, and she will smile, and the world will go on without him. He’s dead. He’s already dead.

“I always think,” Hillary says, “that people should have something to look forward to.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

There’s a new officer to watch over him. Julian wonders why; it’s not as though he can escape. He doesn’t think he could walk, even if he could somehow pry himself free from his restraints, and there’s not only a lock on the door but cameras recording his every breath.

Just as he realises that there is more than one way to escape, the new officer looks up from her book to check his readouts. His captors do not intend to let him slip away.

Julian closes his eyes, wishing desperately for a mercy blow.

He knows none will ever come.

**Author's Note:**

> Specific warning details: The POV character is a rapist and contrasts the rape he is experiencing to the rapes he committed. This section includes victim-blaming and rape rationalisation. Other things to be aware of: references to impending castration.


End file.
